


baby, who do you wanna be?

by akamine_chan



Series: The Sharpest Lives [13]
Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Community: anon_lovefest, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This on-off thing they have goes bad and Poison gets punched in the eye.  He swears to Jet he's never going to talk to Gerard again.  Jet sighs and gives him a quick hug before going back to work on the engine of the Am.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby, who do you wanna be?

**Author's Note:**

> Written non-anonymously for the LJ community anon_lovefest
> 
> Excellent betas by Lucifuge5 and Andeincascade
> 
> Prompt of: _Killjoys AU (totally counts!). Poison/Frank to piss Gerard off/make him jealous. Will settle for anything, but threesomes are love._
> 
> Title from _Kill All Your Friends_ by My Chemical Romance

They fight, mainly because Gerard is such a contrary motherfucker.

This on-off thing they have goes bad and Poison gets punched in the eye. He swears to Jet he's never going to talk to Gerard again. Jet sighs and gives him a quick hug before going back to work on the engine of the Am.

Poison kicks at a rock sullenly. Fuck Gerard, anyway.

* * *

It's a surprise when it happens.

It shouldn't be, because Poison's had more than his fair share of casual bathroom hookups and easy fucks. Just not recently. It's been a while ( _since he met Gerard_ ); he doesn't want to think about how long it's actually been. But when Gerard's tiny fox-faced guitarist drops to his knees and starts pawing at the zip of Poison's pants, he's not going to complain. At all.

He just leans back against the wall and lets the guy ( _Frank, his name is Frank_ ) do whatever he wants. Frank gets Poison's pants open, reaches in with a clever, inked hand and grabs Poison's dick. Poison moans and shifts, wanting more.

"Yeah," Frank murmurs. He opens his mouth and takes Poison in, his mouth wet and hot. He starts sucking, exactly the way Poison loves it, a little slow, a little rough, just a hint of teeth.

Poison's head drops back and his eyes flutter shut as he lets himself sink into the pleasure. "More," he says, rocking his hips the littlest bit. "That's it, yeah."

Frank pulls off long enough to laugh breathlessly before leaning in to take Poison _deep, deep, deep_.

"Fuck," Poison hisses. "Oh, fuck, f—fuck, your mouth—"

He hears the door squeak open and "Motherfucker!" Frank moves away and Poison opens his eyes in time to see Gerard slam out of the bathroom, pretty face stormy.

Looking up with a cheeky grin, Frank gives Poison's cock a long lick. "Sorry, dude. Gotta go." He scrambles to his feet and is gone through the door after Gerard.

"The fuck?" Poison's still hard, his dick wet and throbbing, but he'll be damned if he's going to beat off in this skanky bathroom. Carefully, he tucks himself away and takes a few deep breaths. Shit, that was so ( _hotsexy_ ) fucked up.

* * *

Gerard really starts to avoid him after that, which Poison doesn't think is fair. He's not the one who randomly got down on his knees in a filthy bathroom and started sucking ( _yeah, so fucking hot_ ) a stranger's dick. Well, okay, maybe not a stranger, but still. He barely knows Frank.

He knows that Frank's a damn shiny guitarist. He knows that Frank has ink dripping down his arms and across his chest, bright and dark lines spilling across his hands. He knows that the guy is fucking insane on stage, jumping around ( _writhing and moaning_ ) and shoving at the rest of the band, unable to keep still for long.

Poison just shakes it off, though. He refuses to play whatever game Gerard's got going. He can go fuck himself. Frank, too, for all he cares.

Fuckers.

A week passes and he's slinking through a bar when a heavy weight hits him, nearly driving him to his knees. Inked hands wrap themselves around his shoulders—"Frank?"

Frank giggles and licks at his ear, sending shivers down Poison's spine. "Find us some place quiet and I'll finish ( _his fucking mouth, so wet and hot_ ) what I started," he murmurs, and Poison doesn't need to be told twice. He hitches Frank higher on his back and staggers into an empty storage room, kicking the door shut with a foot. Letting go, he drops Frank to the ground and spins, crowding Frank up against the wall.

Poison pushes Frank's legs wide and settles in, grinding against him. He drags his mouth across the soft skin of Frank's neck, teeth leaving behind red marks. "Heya, Frank," he laughs softly. "What's up?" He punctuates the question with a rough thrust of his hips.

"Fucker," Frank moans, hands scrabbling up Poison's back, digging in hard. "Yeah, that's it, that's it—"

"Yeah?" Poison can feel Frank's hard ( _his mouth waters at the thought_ ) cock as he ruts against him. "You're such an eager little thing, so fucking greedy," Poison purrs, rocking his hips. He noses at Frank's ear, feeling him shiver. "Should push you down and spread you open—" Poison barely registers the squeak of the door before someone grabs his jacket and pulls him off of Frank.

"What the fuck—" It's Gerard, of _course_ it's Gerard, cock blocking motherfucker that he is. "Go find your own date, asshole, this one's mine," Poison snarls.

"Back off," Gerard says, and it's almost funny the way he moves protectively in front of Frank, fists clenched. Frank just stands there, all heavy-lidded eyes and smugness.

Poison raises an eyebrow. He has no idea what the fuck is going on, but really, Poison's had enough of both of them. He's a simple, straight-forward kind of boy ( _simple wants, simple needs_ ) and there are plenty of willing people to fuck out here in the Dust.

"No problem, baby," he says with a sharp grin. "I'll leave the two of you...alone."

He walks away, but not before he hears Frank say, "You said you didn't _want_ him."

"I don't, you stupid fuck. He's dangerous," Gerard hisses back, and really, Poison is so done here. To hell with both of them.

"Liar," Frank snorts. “You just don't want to want him.”

Poison pretends not to hear.

* * *

And then Poison's swallowed by a huge raid that the Dracs stage in Zone 4. He gets caught in their dragnet, concussed by a hard blow to the back of the head. He's holding onto consciousness by his ragged fingernails when they haul him to the detention center. It's too much to hope that they don't recognize him. His face is splashed ( _fucking red Xs_ ) across too many 'exterminate' posters.

He bleeds a lot on the clean floor, shockingly red against the white. The Dracs know that they can't kill him; Korse's standing orders are to bring him in _alive_ , but that doesn't mean they can't tread close ( _too fucking close_ ) to that particular line. After a while, the beatings slur together and Poison can't feel the pain through the cold.

It's a rough few days. The Dracs keep him awake and isolated under the glare of the sterile fluorescents, trying their best to crack him. Time stretches and twists; he can't tell how long he's been here.

He bends but doesn't break, and when he finally gets rescued, he watches Ghoul blow the place to hell with a grim sense of satisfaction and a feral smile on his face.

If he could, he'd bring the Dracs back to life just so he could kill ( _with his bare hands_ ) them all over again.

He feels distant and razor-sharp; he shrugs off Kobra's hand and takes refuge in a dingy bar on the outskirts of Bat City, give-away hair dyed black. He drinks steadily until he passes out and the bartender dumps him into the alley; no one bothers him because no one knows him here. It's like he's shed his skin and left Party Poison behind, but he can barely remember the person he was before he was Poison. It's been so long.

He doesn't dream about the Dracs or the detention center, mostly because the alk and the pills keep him from dreaming at all.

No one finds him at the flophouse he's crashing at ( _no one's looking_ ) and when he runs out of c's, he contemplates hustling for some, but he's just too damn tired.

Time to go home, then.

It takes him a while to get back to the diner, because he's dead broke and has nothing to trade, not even his notoriety as a Killjoy. He doesn't get recognized without his banner-bright red hair.

A sweet young crashqueen drops him off at the diner, giving him a saucy wink ( _she's so alive and beautiful_ ) as she roars away on her motorcycle. Poison looks at the diner, the place he's called home and wishes he felt something, anything.

He thinks maybe the Dracs _did_ break him, after all.

Kobra engulfs him in a tight hug ( _home home home_ ) the second Poison's through the door; Ghoul and Jet follow suit and Poison can feel himself shaking, about to fall apart.

"Fucker, you had us worried," Ghoul murmurs, and for the first time since the detention center, Poison feels like the internal bleeding has finally stopped.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers into Jet's solid shoulder. “Sorry.”

He spends the evening with his boys, just being with them, sprawled on their dusty couch. They drink beer and curse Korse and plan their next raid. It's the only way he knows to say 'I love you.'

They get it. They get _him_. They always do.

* * *

Word gets around fast; the next evening, Gerard shows up in the rickety van that sucks up every spare c the band manages to make. Poison's not sure what happens, but his boys fade away, leaving him alone with Gerard.

With Poison's hair dyed black, the resemblance between them is more striking, like looking into a mirror ( _you are me and I am you_ ) that's just a little _off_. Gerard's mouth is a little wider, his nose a little shorter, they're not the same height, but still, close enough. Poison has to wonder, for the first time, how much of his attraction to Gerard is narcissism.

"It's wrong," Gerard says, breaking the awkward silence. "You don't look like yourself without the hair."

"That depends on who I'm supposed to be," Poison shrugs. He doesn't understand what Gerard wants, or why he's here.

"Well." Gerard says, sliding into the booth. "I guess that's a good question. Who _are_ you?"

Poison sits across from him, splaying his hands down on the table and staring at them. He remembers some of his life ( _the pills, all the colors of the rainbow_ ) before Party Poison, an endless living death, white and cold, before he'd been shocked back into life.

"Party Poison," he says, softly, testing the weight of the name on his tongue and in his mouth.

"Yeah?" Gerard lifts a shoulder. "You don't sound like him. Don't look like him, either."

"Fuck you."

"There he is." Gerard grins and rummages through his backpack. He sets a bottle of dye on the table. "Oh, and this." It's a jacket, but not the one that had gotten dusted in the raid. "I figured Party Poison needed a shiny jacket to go with the red hair and the attitude."

Poison holds it up. It's dark blue with red, white and blue accents, ripped in a couple of spots, but still in pretty good shape. He eyes it, thinking. He has some patches he could sew on, turn the volume up a little, make it _his_. Yeah, he'd make it look good.

He sees the jacket and the dye ( _we came to party, kill the party tonight_ ) for what they are: an apology. "Thanks, baby."

* * *

When he looks into the cracked mirror, hair neon red, he _sees_ himself and grins. "Hey there, sugar. Where you been?"

And later, if he sometimes finds himself in a bed sandwiched between Frank and Gerard, well, that's just shiny.

-fin-


End file.
